Beguiled Again: A Romantic Comedy (17 page)

His senses were filled with her. He could smell her, taste her, feel her. There had never been a woman so soft, so warm. Curves. She was all soft curves. Funny how he’d always been drawn to long and slender, legs that went on forever. Cecil’s calf was plump where it should be plump, but it was firm, and her ankles were slender. Her waist nipped in exactly as it should, but her hips, even her bottom, had the most delightfully feminine contours—

And the sound of her. When she got excited, her voice soared, then dropped, half rasp, half chuckle as she rattled on; in his arms her sighs had been throaty, husky.

Her voice, her face, her hands—they fluttered with excitement, flared with quick anger, softened with exquisite temptation when he least expected it. Did she even know what she was doing to him? And why was he letting it happen?

Why? Because from the moment he’d broken off the Houston trip, he’d felt displaced, not real. He had a merciless workload, yet he couldn’t keep his mind on work, and as yet he felt no twinge of guilt. By Monday morning he’d probably be gnashing his teeth in the face of last-minute reality.

But not today. Not while Cecilia waited for him.

He pulled into the small, covered parking spot in front of his town house and cut off the engine. He grabbed the box of doughnuts and bounded up the front steps two at a time. He pushed the front door open and walked into a solid wall of country and western music, with an occasional squawking contribution from Toulouse.

The morning newspaper was scattered across the carpet, the business section tossed to one side, the front page to another. The sports page was spread open and Cecilia lay sprawled on her stomach in front of it, her chin propped on her fists. She raised her head and greeted him with a wide smile. “Nelson Cruz hit two home runs.”

Toulouse glared from his spot high on top of the perch, seemingly enraged by Cecilia’s bare, swaying legs, perhaps even contemplating snatching her painted toenails. Jeff, too, found them distracting, but he was certain the nibbles the bird was anticipating were quite different from his own.

“You don’t like baseball?” She turned the page.

“Oh, yeah. It’s great. I just didn’t realize the Rangers’ season had started.”

She crossed her feet, pointing them ceilingward. “Spring training,” she explained, examining the basketball box scores.

“I thought you were afraid of Toulouse.”

The bird squawked at the sound of his name, and sidestepped restlessly on the perch.

Cecilia gave the bird a cursory glance then aimed a wicked grin at Jeff. “His perch is brass,” she said, as if that were supposed to mean something.

“You’re driving him crazy,” Jeff remarked.

“Yes. Isn’t it grand?” She flashed an evil smile, stuck a tongue out at the parrot, then returned to the newspaper.

“Wait. The Mavericks game is on cable? Damn.”

“I’ve got tickets.”

“What?” She stared at him, her lips parted in surprise. He wanted to kiss her. “You’ve got tickets to the Mavs and Spurs game?”
 

“If that’s who they’re playing today. A friend at the office gave them to me, when, er, her plans were changed. She had to leave town unexpectedly.” He remembered McVay’s snarl as she’d pitched them onto his desk. But she was a trooper. She hadn’t complained, only reminded him how much they would have cost from a scalper. “Want to go?”

“The game starts in three hours. By the time I go home and change clothes and we fight the traffic—” She pulled to her feet.

He got a quick flash of navel as his shirtfront flared. Not enough time. Good. They could go back to bed.

"Are you serious? she asked. "You’d take me?"

“Serious as a heart attack,” he agreed reluctantly, preceding her into the kitchen. He grabbed the coffeepot and poured each of them a cup, grabbed the creamer and sugar bowl from the shelf. "Here. Make it fast."

“Do you have any artificial sweetener?” she asked.

“No" What was the point of running all those damned laps if he couldn’t eat and drink what he wanted to? “You’re eating a jelly doughnut and you think artificial sweetener will help?.”

“Smart ass." She stirred sugar into her coffee. "So, where are the seats?”

“I’ll have to look and see.” He wasn’t about to tell her he hadn’t planned to use them. Why the hell had he mentioned those tickets? He didn’t want Cecilia in the middle of 20,000 other screaming fans, no matter how terrific the game. He didn’t want to share her with them or with anybody. He wanted her here, to turn his apartment upside down with scattered clothes and newspapers. To turn him upside down.

And then it hit him.

Hard.
 

He couldn’t have Cecilia without sharing her. These past hours were stolen. They were the rare exception to their everyday routines. Her real life was a horde of children, a dog, a chaotic schedule. Not an oasis from his stress load, but an added load of stress.

He watched her lick a dollop of raspberry jelly from her knuckle, listened to her chatter about the game, and wanted to silence her with a hard punishing kiss. Not because he was angry with her, but because he was angry with himself. Angry for forgetting who and what she was.

He was angry too for not caring, even now, when he knew how impossible a lasting relationship between them would be. They had always been an impossible combination, hadn’t they? That was no surprise.

How much it bothered him, that was the shocker.

He splashed his coffee into the sink. “I think I’d better go get dressed.”

“Wear green and blue,” she advised him.

He shook his head, unable to hold back a chuckle. “Cecil, I don’t have anything even remotely near Mavericks green and blue.” And before she could get any other ideas, he added, “And I’m not painting my face.”

“Be that way, then.” She pranced into the bathroom and closed the door, but the flash of sexy, jiggling ass sent heat straight where he did not need it at the moment.

It was a very good thing they were going to share the afternoon with 20,000 other screaming fans. Seriously good thing. And if he kept thinking it, he might actually believe it.
 

~o0o~

Cecilia peered warily into the bathroom mirror. She fluffed her curls back into their normal state of confusion and washed her face. Her makeup and false eyelashes from the night before were gone, and she was relieved to meet the eyes of the same Cecilia Evans she always saw. She tugged at the neck of Jeff’s shirt, closing it more securely over her cleavage.

The door, already ajar, swung open. Jeff stood there, hair combed, wearing a navy polo shirt and chinos.

“Don’t you ever knock?” She opened a drawer and located a small tube of toothpaste. “Excuse me,” she said, and squeezed the blue gel onto her finger, then rubbed it across her teeth.

“Is that the way you always do it?” Jeff asked.

“When I don’t have a toothbrush,” she sputtered through the foam.

“Here.” He slapped a clear plastic toothbrush down on the counter beside her. “If you’re going to do it, do it right.”

Cecilia took the toothbrush gratefully, though the thought passed through her mind that the fact that he was in the habit of keeping spare toothbrushes around ought to tell her something. Spitting the last of the foam into the sink and rinsing her mouth out, she glared at him in the mirror.

“You’re making me nervous. Why are you staring at me like that?” she demanded.

Jeff grinned. “I’m just waiting for you to get through with my toothbrush.”

“ Your— Oh, gad, I’m going to be sick!” Cecilia stared at the clear plastic in her hand. “You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you?” she asked hopefully.

“What do you think, that I keep spares for overnight guests?”

“My God, Jeff! How many people have used this thing?”

Jeff’s hand closed roughly over hers. “Let’s get one thing straight, Cecil. I haven’t got a revolving door into my bedroom. I thought you knew me better than that. I’m a monogamist. I don’t play around. When I have strong feelings for a woman, she’s the only one in my life. And when there’s no one special, I don’t go in for idle flirtations or one-night stands.”

Cecilia steeled against his words.
Don’t listen
, she pleaded with herself. Don’t start hoping. She, too, was a monogamist—so much so that there had never been another man in her life but Robert.

Until last night.

But Jeff had had other women in his life. He’d had other relationships, though none of them had led to marriage. So however faithful Jeff might be, a relationship with him was unlikely to lead anywhere but pain.

He released her wrist, and she forced a smile.

“I think I’d better see what kind of shape my clothes are in.”

Cecilia climbed the stairs, suddenly deflated. Turning into the spare room, she paused. The dress was wrinkled, of course. The boa was still coiled on the floor. Her wispy underwear lay jumbled with his— What on earth?

She pressed her fist against her lips, trying to stifle the sudden spurt of laughter. How had she missed them last night? Well, she hadn’t actually been watching. As a matter of fact, she’d deliberately avoided watching.

“Cecil?”

She spun to face him through glittering tears, her mouth still covered, her shoulders shaking.

“What’s wrong?” His hands closed over her shoulders. She shook her head helplessly. She wasn’t going to laugh. She couldn’t laugh. She refused to.

She exploded with laughter.

Jeffs hands fell away and concern warred with confusion on his face. “What’s the problem?”

Cecilia pointed at the red tartan boxer shorts beside her own peacock blue half-slip, then sank to the floor, tears streaming down her face.

Jeff towered over her, his arms akimbo. “Do you have a problem with my shorts?” he demanded.

“They’re really yours?” she gasped.

“Who the hell do you think they belong to?”

“They—they don’t look like you, Jeff.”

“Oh?” he drawled. “And who do they look like?”

“I mean, they just didn’t... they weren’t what... Damn it, Jeff!” She glared up at him.

“I don’t like people laughing at my boxers,” he reprimanded her sternly, and his eyes gleamed with intent. “I’m going to make you pay for that.” He grabbed her wrists and applied gentle pressure, pulling her with him to the floor. He pressed her shoulders and she allowed him to pin her. “Apologize for laughing.”

“No. I won’t apologize. They looked funny lying on the floor like that.” She felt her chest rising and falling, the silk sliding subtly against her breasts with each breath, his eyes watching with scarcely disguised longing. “I don’t know if they look funny on,” she continued. “I didn’t notice them last night.”

One sable eyebrow arched. “Is that a hint?”

“You might take it that way,” she agreed. “But be forewarned. I might laugh.”

“Oh, really?” He shook his head and released her. “Then forget it. Hurry up and get dressed, or we’ll miss the tip-off.”

She rose up on her elbows, her eyes narrowed. “You’re right. It’s not every day you get to see LeBron James.”

Jeff started to stand, but she reached out and grabbed his arm.

“Jeff, you don’t want to go to the game, do you?”

“Sure I do.”

“You didn’t even know the Mavs were playing the Lakers, the biggest game of the season so far. Jeff, do you know anything about basketball at all?”

“Of course I do. Two baskets, five players, bounce the ball, no traveling, no tackling, no spitting.”

“All of which you learned in school. Tell me, who’s the starting guard for the Mavericks?”

He shot her a dirty look.

She leaned back against the wall, feeling rather smug. “It was a dead giveaway when you didn’t remind me that LeBron James plays for the Heat, not Lakers, not Mavs. Heat, as in Miami.”

“What’s the point of all this?” Jeff asked, exasperated. “Is this some further proof that I’m—”

“I won’t laugh at your boxers.”

“You won’t— right now? Oh, really. You’re going to miss your game."

“Not if I play it right.” She giggled again. “At least, not the game I’m thinking of.”

“Cecilia, you’re crazy.”

“I know,” she agreed happily. “And I don’t even wear plaid underwear.”

“You’re not going to let it drop, are you?”

“What color are you wearing today? Polka dot? No, white with red hearts.”

“Cecilia,” he explained patiently, “polka dots and red hearts have no class.”

“Plaid does,” she remarked neutrally.

“In my opinion.”

She measured her words carefully, enjoying the flavor of them on her lips. “Prove it.”

He drew a deep breath, his eyelids lowering.

She leaned forward, propping her elbows on her knees, her chin on her fists.

“What kind of wanton woman have I allowed into my domain?” he asked accusingly as he rose to his full height.

“I believe the correct term is 'brazen hussy.’”